


Dreams Ran Like Sand Through The Fist That I Made

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies AU, M/M, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for The Hobbit kink meme, in which Kili and Bilbo have been slowly building a relationship over the course of the quest, and Kili is resolved having a life in the Shire with Bilbo when the Lonely Mountain is reclaimed.  He and Fili joined the quest more for Thorin's sake than any real desire to live in Erebor, anyway, and there are plenty of opportunities in nearby towns to keep him from getting bored.  </p>
<p>Only, Thorin and Fili do not survive the Battle of Five Armies, and suddenly Kili finds himself in the position of King Under the Mountain--a title he never expected or was prepared for.  And while he may have been able to be perfectly happy in the Shire, he and Bilbo both know the hobbit will never be truly comfortable or happy living at Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams Ran Like Sand Through The Fist That I Made

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I wrote Hobbit angst. Anyone who is following my Teen Wolf and Walking Dead stuff...I promise, this is just a momentary diversion :) Look, it's even got a finite number of parts! 
> 
> I have read most of Tolkien's works, but for the purposes of this 'fic, I'm going more with movie-canon (and a bit of just sheer fanon), I hope this is enjoyed.

Even with the cold of winter coming on fast, the air above the cursed battlefield is starting to grow thick and putrid with the stench of rotting flesh. So many bodies—man and dwarf and elf alike, all tossed and scattered like broken, forgotten toys. Day and night, there is a steady stream of activity as the foul corpses of their enemies—the remains of wargs and orcs and goblins—are piled up and set alight as far away from the hastily thrown-up encampments as can be managed. Even so, smoke tainted with the scent of burning rot hangs heavy in the air, and a thick, greasy ash rains down like the foulest snow ever created. 

The remains of their fallen soldiers are carried from the battlefield for proper identification and burial…but he can already tell that soon they will have no choice but to burn the bodies of their allies as well. Winter is coming, and there is still too much work to be done to protect the living—they will have no time to dig graves for the dead. The halls of Erebor lie in rack and ruin, nearly every inch befouled by the dragon. There is so much work to be done to clear some kind of living space for those that will be wintering within its walls…and messengers have been dispatched back ho—back to the Blue Mountains, to tell their people that Erebor has been reclaimed. None will dare make the journey in the coldest months, but come spring, there will be hundreds--if not thousands--of dwarves returning to their ancestral home. There is still so much to be done. 

He cannot yet bring himself to care. 

Thorin is dead. Their stern, determined leader, their king… His beloved uncle, the dwarf who it sometimes seems taught him everything of value he knows, who held him on his knee and told him stories, who sang him to sleep when he was small. Thorin is dead. Dead and gone and buried in the tombs at the very root of the mountain. Thorin is dead, and that loss is still waiting to be felt. That pain is still waiting to pounce, but he can’t feel it yet. 

There is nothing left in him to feel it, right now, not when everything he is is centered on the gaping, yawning, hemorrhaging wound that is the loss of _Fili_. His brother…his brother is gone, and he does not understand how it can be so. How is it that the world has not stopped? How is it that he still moves and speaks and functions without the reassuring presence of his brother by his side? Only a fortnight has passed since Fili was laid to rest beside their uncle, and how is he supposed to go weeks and months and years more without his brother? Without speaking to Fili? Without hearing his laughter? Without enduring his teasing? Without the knowledge that should he call, Fili will be there, no matter how far apart they may be?

He does not understand how he is supposed to do this…to do _any_ of it. 

Erebor is theirs again. The dragon is defeated; their enemies are driven back from their borders. They are settling into the uneasy beginnings of alliances with Bard’s people, and even the elves of Mirkwood. Dain’s folk have agreed to stay and help them rebuild in preparation for the rest of their people arriving from the Blue Mountains. There is the business of a kingdom to attend to, and…

And he is the one who must lead them. He is the one who must be King Under the Mountain—the one who neither _wanted_ , nor was ever supposed to _have_ the title. He must lead them now, must appear strong in front of their new allies, must establish himself immediately, lest their kinfolk spy any weakness and start thinking that perhaps the line of Durin should not sit on the throne in this next age of Erebor. 

He cannot show weakness, Balin has told him, his voice solemn and full of regretful understanding of what he is asking. What they are _all_ asking of him. And what can he do but obey? Balin’s shoulders are stooped in a way that they never have been before. For all his white hair and wrinkles, Balin has never looked _old_ to him. He does, now. Taking back Erebor has cost them—has cost _him_ very nearly everything. 

_Will_ cost him everything. 

He must become the leader that his people need…anything less, and all the death he has seen these past weeks will be for nothing. Thorin’s death will be for nothing. _Fili’s_ death will be for nothing, and that he cannot bear. Whatever it costs him, he will see the best parts of Thorin’s dream come to fruition. 

“Kili?” There is a soft, hesitant rap of knuckles against the archway of the hall he’s tucked himself into. He’s leaning back against the rough stone wall, staring blindly down the stairway that leads to the catacombs…that leads to where Fili is. He can’t manage the steps on his own yet—had had to be carried down them to see his uncle and brother laid to rest—but he comes here often, these days. Stands at the top of them and looks down into the darkness, some childish part of him longing to hear footsteps coming towards him, hear his brother’s teasing voice announcing that it’s all been a terrible mistake. 

He needs to stop doing that.

He heaves himself clumsily away from the wall, awkwardly shifting his wooden crutch under his good arm. The wounds he sustained in the battle are still healing, and his right leg is slow to respond to his commands, oftentimes refusing to take his weight properly. The healers assure him the weakness is only temporary, and in time, he’ll be able to walk properly. He’ll bear the horrific scarring across the right side of his body for the rest of his life, of course. 

They tell him he’ll likely never regain full use of his right arm. 

He moves slowly up the short hall, to where Bilbo is standing quietly, watching him with understanding eyes. He doesn’t ask what Bilbo wants…he knows well enough that he’s been down here too long today. The hobbit slips unobtrusively to his side as he passes—close enough to help if he should stumble, close enough that their knuckles brush together as they walk—but doesn’t reach out to try and support him. He is deeply grateful for the courtesy. 

“Who’s looking for me now?” he asks as they walk (well, Bilbo walks…he hobbles, and has to consciously force himself to take slow, measured steps that won’t undo all his stitches again). Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bilbo’s mouth lift in a pale attempt at a smile. 

“I’m afraid it would take less time to tell you who is _not_ looking for you, Master Dwarf,” Bilbo says. Like his smile, the teasing tone is a poor imitation, but he appreciates the effort. Enough that he feels his own lips quirk. 

“Best not keep them waiting, then, Mister Boggins,” he sighs. They walk in silence, until the halls brow brighter and a little warmer, until the murmur of voices starts echoing off the stone walls. 

They pause just before exiting the hallway they are in, drawing to a halt at the same time. Bilbo’s hand snakes into his for a moment, squeezing gently. He doesn’t speak, just squeezes back and lifts their entwined fingers to his mouth to brush a soft kiss against the pulse in Bilbo’s wrist. 

Then, even though it hurts, even though his muscles protest with sharp, stabbing pains, he draws himself straighter. He leans less weight on his crutch, and tries to square his shoulders and lift his chin. Show no weakness, Balin has advised, and by all the gods above and below, he _will not_.


End file.
